


After One Google Search I Couldn't find a Scientific Name for the Fear of Confined Medium Sized Spaces

by JamsHogie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Non-Binary phobia, POV Dirk Strider, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamsHogie/pseuds/JamsHogie
Summary: Dirk Strider writes to you a thousand word letter. It rambles. It is pretentious.





	After One Google Search I Couldn't find a Scientific Name for the Fear of Confined Medium Sized Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. August.

To understand me, you have to understand one simple fact: I have a fear of Confined Medium Sized Spaces. I grew up in a fucking box that was surrounded by a limitless and endless void of saltwater and sea-monsters. And within that box I had the metaphysical capabilities of squeezing my consciousness through a tube into another box. Surrounded by a more literal void of space sea-monsters. 

Boxes? I love them. Especially if they’re the right size. They’re comforting. Stable. Allows me to push at all sides and not experience any give. Someone else would call it suffocating. I thinks it’s comforting to let my Dorito dusted fingernails dig into these walls and nothing breaks. 

Endless expanses of void? I sure hope it does. So much space to just ooze. Whether that be physically or metaphysically. Letting my splinters run ragged. Not needing to care about their jagged broken edges hurting anyone that matters. Just myself. And my grubby little Dorito hands getting the dust everywhere I want. 

But Confined Medium Sized Spaces? Give me fucking hives. My edges brush up against beings that are one dimensional. Effortlessly and maliciously grinding into weak selves and getting their soul paste in my cracks. Caulking them up with strange and temporary patch jobs I did not want or consent too. Ultimately, those patch jobs didn’t matter. Were they nice and did I appreciate them? Eh. two and a half stars. Could’ve gone without the bumfuck lout treating me like I’m some kind of personal life preserver. 

But this life preserver was also a guy. And he had problems. Loads of problems. Like the fact that whenever he did make a cry for help. It was put to the side. His problems were always lost in the goddamn grand design of a baby man with fat ass cheeks hoping his way to self destruction. Any and all attempts for the life preserver to do his fucking job were met with an almost obnoxious amount of resistance. Hemming and hawing to an insufferable degree. And those fat ass cheeks went a clapping right back to where they started. 

And honestly, who cares right? Who cares about Jake English shifting reality unconsciously to accommodate his own unresolved dramatic self loathing. I don’t. Not with the perspective I have now. 

It all comes back to my unresolved issues with confined medium sized spaces. Reality is just a construct of the individual selves perceiving light and the soup of that species neurology spits out a series of things to interpret. But my soup is ascended. It doesn’t perceive just light. It perceives the very concept of selves. I’ve always known this. But it took me leaving Canon to understand. 

Canon is a box. A nice confined little space to let my sweaty little cool ranch phalanges experience hard limits. The walls of Canon were rigid and immovable. My edges bounced off the walls of existence and told me no subconsciously. Nothing I could have done would let me grind these barriers down. So I was able to live a life of comfort within the confines of those limits. 

Post-Canon is not an endless expanse of void. At one point I would have assumed a Confined Medium Sized Space was any area with more than two people separated by hundreds of miles of ocean. I was very wrong. A Confined Medium Sized Space is an area that is not a box and not a void. It has a defined series of walls, but they aren’t rigid or far enough away. So my splinters, horrible jagged little katanas, grind and spin and crack the foundation. 

And that is how I began my ascension into my ultimate self. I wasn’t Rose. Slowly but surely being inundated with Knowledge and losing my sense of physicality over time. I wasn’t Dave. Whose alternate selves were ultimately just the same dope as hell guy fucking up ad infinitum. 

I certainly was not Jake English. Boy Wonder extraordinaire. Capable of preventing himself from experiencing any version of alternate self through toxic unconscious self hatred that seeped through every post canon reality he was apart of. 

I am Dirk Strider. I destroyed the limit of self. And assimilated. Taking an Engineers touch to each and every Alternate identity and keeping what I like. Destroying what I don’t. Learning every iteration of post canon and finding myself disgusted with what I see. 

Just like you right? Meat was atrocious by my own design. I was having fun in that little iteration of a box. The dolls were all there. Rose was cracking. I slowly broke her into what she needed to be. John was-Honestly who gives a fuck about John. He barely accomplished his job. I lost Roxy in the toy box. She-He-They-Whatever was going about a little Toy Story movie of Her-His-Their-Whatever design. Cute, but ultimately devoid of any substance. Dave, you were my own little pet project. The main core of the identity of myself across all realities. How could I not help you be happy?

Nobody else mattered. Especially not some Doomed Cherub finger painting on reality with her brother’s blood. 

Then there was Candy. Ha ha holy shit. This is what happens to a reality not influenced by Dirk Strider is just left to rot itself away. Honestly am I even a bad guy? A bad guy would have let Gamzee or Vriska back into the narrative, instead of letting them rot in Candy. 

I had my fun with that reality and a few others. Jake's little speech was something I will never forget. When my soup manages to go even further beyond, a little katana will come to self awareness every few epochs. Just long enough to remember that little scene. And it will laugh and laugh back into the obscurity of the void. 

Regardless of how you feel, were doing this man where making this happen. And I will be the one shaping this new reality Rose, Terezi and I will make. Just not yet. A few pieces still need to be in place. After all, how can you make a Frog without a Space player or Knight?

**Author's Note:**

> ヽ(▼ｰ▼ｷ)


End file.
